Page 85 of The Importance of Being Emma
‘The offer’s always there if you need it.’
‘Thank you, but there’s absolutely nothing wrong. Now, did you want to look at my focus group results analysis and see if I’ve missed anything?’
I sighed and did as she suggested, reflecting that, if I ever needed to be mentored in stonewalling techniques, I’d know exactly who to turn to.
* * *
~~EMMA~~
By half past nine on Thursday morning, Harriet still hadn’t turned up for work. Her mobile was switched off and I was just about to drive over to her house in case she’d overslept, when she burst into my room. She was a terrible sight: hair in disarray, mascara running, tights laddered, white fake leather coat stained and torn.
I jumped up from my desk. ‘Whatever’s wrong?’
‘Friggin’ Goths—’ She glanced over at Jane. ‘Sorry, no offence.’
Jane looked understandably baffled.
‘Have a seat.’ I took Harriet’s arm and guided her to the nearest chair. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘Christ no, but I could friggin’ kill for a bottle of Lambrini.’
Lambrini? I dreaded to think what sort of dubious plonk she wanted to pour down her throat. My lips tightened; it was as though she’d suddenly reverted to Late Neanderthal Chavette. The contrast with the image I wanted her to project for Harriet’s Secret Recipes couldn’t have been more marked.
‘Calm down,’ I said sternly, ‘and tell me what happened.’
She perched on the edge of the chair and started shredding the leaves of the yucca next to her. ‘I was on my way to work, along the high street, not through Little Bassington.’ She gave me a meaningful look, then went on, ‘I stopped at the lights and some Goths walked past. I mean, a bunch of Goths in broaddaylight in the middle of Highbury! Where were the friggin’ police?’
I sighed. ‘Please don’t keep using the word “frigging”, it’s not very nice. And stop tormenting that poor plant.’ I hastily removed it from her clutches.
‘Sorry, Emma, it’s just I’m traumi — traumicised—’
‘Traumatised? Why? What did the Goths do to you?’
‘They tagged me.’
‘They what?’
‘Tagged me, they put a sticker saying “your car is shit” — sorry, “your car is poo” — on my windscreen.’
‘Oh, that’s horrible. But how did you get into such a mess? Did they turn on you after they’d, um, tagged you?’
She giggled. ‘Actually,Iwent forthem. I got really stuck into the biggest one, went for her piercings, you just grab and twist — like that!’ She gave a demonstration that made me wince. ‘Then Flynn Churchill turned up. Between us we could’ve hammered them, but he went all soft. Started apologising for me, told them I was under great pressure at work ’cos I was having a relationship with my lemo boss and—’
‘Hang on,’ I cut in, ‘why did he call me a lemur?’
More giggles. ‘Lemo, it’s short for lesbian emo. You must know what a lesbian is, and emo’s someone who’s emotional, innit?’
Oh fantastic, hadn’t he told me my ‘secret’ was safe with him?
‘It’s not true,’ I said, indignantly. ‘It was all a misunderstanding, and I wasn’t that emotional — at least, not in front of him.’
Fortunately, Harriet wasn’t the inquiring sort. ‘I’m sure he didn’t mean it, Emma, it was just something to say. And it worked, the friggin’ Goths just walked off.’
I pulled myself together as I realised people wouldn’t take Flynn’s comment seriously. And a new thought was taking root in the fertile soil of my mind . . .
‘But how romantic, Flynn riding to your rescue like that.’ I gave a knowing little smile.
She looked at me blankly. ‘He wasn’t riding, he was walking.’
